


Enough

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [167]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Affection, First Time, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: One morning, Q wakes up with a lion in his bed.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Everyone thinks we hate each other because we bicker all the time but really we’re just bickering like the married couple we are and Multiple Orgasms. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator) and this [one](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw).

One morning, Q wakes up with a lion in his bed. The lion has gray in his beard and scars on his back--ragged blooms from old bullets, a slash or two from a knife, a wide, white stripe left by a surgeon in a hurry, one desperate to save the lion’s life--and he has the most marvelous hands, broad and wide and rough but with a touch that’s deliberate, almost delicate, even when he’s exerting their strength. Like now, when Q opens his eyes with a gasp, when he tumbles out of sleep and into the land of the living to find his thighs spread and his hips pinned to the bed and the lion of the service stretched between his legs lapping mercilessly at Q’s cock, urging it up and already beyond half mast, and when Q looks down, Bond is staring right back.

“James?” Q says, his voice in full stagger.

That gets his balls a nuzzle, his cock humming with the sound of the lion’s low purr. “You were expecting somebody else?”

“No, I--”

Bond bites at the soft catch of Q’s thigh. “I don’t know how it’s done in your branch, sweet, but generally, when I go to bed with someone, I’m not surprised when I see them still there in the morning.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“No,” Bond murmurs. Q can feel him smirking. “Of course you didn't.”

Q remembers how his limbs work, vaguely, and fumbles one through the air to scratch at Bond’s head, to slide his fingers through the man’s pleasantly tangled strands. Bond leans into it, his lids flickering with pleasure.

“James,” Q says again.

“Yes, darling?”

“Don’t stop.”

“No?” Bond dips his head again, rubs the rough of his beard against Q’s hip.

“No,  _ah_ ”--Bond’s tongue finds his skin and Q claws at his neck, the fine hair there--“please don’t. Don’t stop.”

Bond groans and Q can feel more than see the bed jerk as Bond rocks his hips, shoves himself against the crumpled wreck of the sheets. “God, Q.”

There’s a smart retort on Q’s tongue-- _just Q will do, cheers_ \--but it flies the coop when Bond turns his head to lick at the swell of Q’s cock and, oh, the sound that Bond makes as he tastes, Q can’t help but echo in return.

“I had great fun teasing you while you still asleep,” Bond says, his breath hot. “But I think now I just want to make you come.”

And then he’s sucking Q down, greedy, those great palms against pinned inside of Q’s thighs, and all Q can do is _feel_ \--there’s no room in his mind for anything else; there’s only sensation: the fierce suck of Bond’s mouth and the swirling counterpoint of his tongue and the eagerness in his eyes when they flick up to find Q’s, fuck, they make him cry out straight away, make him fill the morning air with sounds he’s never heard himself make. Not until last night, anyway, when Bond had taken him out for a drink by way of _thanks for saving my life_ and Q had only had two French 75’s but he’d shoved Bond into the shadows as they walked to the car and kissed him just the same and it was no shock that the man was a good kisser but what was crazy was that Bond had kissed him back, had squeezed Q’s ass and groaned like Q was killing him and said, “You’re coming back to my flat.”

And what could Q have said but _yes_ and _yes please_ and when they’d been naked at last and Bond had been curled up behind him, tugging him off and telling him how pretty he was, how divine, how good it was going to feel when Bond fucked him, Q had spurted like a schoolboy, his come slipping through Bond’s fingers and up his wrist and Bond had laughed, the sound warm against the back of Q’s neck and over the the turn of his throat.

“So eager,” Bond had said. “Look at you, Q. You’ve made such a mess.”

He’d turned Q on his back and kissed him, reached for the lube and opened him, pushed inside deep and watched Q’s face while they fucked, chuckled every time Q squeezed his eyes shut and moaned.

“I bet you can come again,” Bond had murmured, tucking his beard against Q’s fevered cheek. “I know you can.”

“Can’t,” Q had panted, his hands curled around the curve of Bond’s ass.

“Yes, you can.”

Q had kissed him, fervent, trying to get the man to shut the hell up. “James, no. I can’t.”

Bond’s tongue had sunk into his mouth, fat and hungry, and that felt so good, made Q feel so loose-limbed and pleasantly weak that he hadn’t noticed his knees bending, the way his legs spread, the way his body opened to Bond’s silent commands, and before he knew it, he was close again, frantic, pulling at his cock while Bond growled in his ear and slammed in, slammed home.

“Fuck,” Bond had hissed, his arms trembling on either side of Q’s head. “Fuck, darling, you’re so tight. You’re going to pull it out of me, aren’t you? You’re going to make me come whether I like it or not.”

Q’s head had fallen back and Bond had buried his face in Q’s throat, all words lost, and when Q had come--a harder jerk than before, his orgasm more desperate, more vivid--Bond had bitten him, a slow roll of teeth, and filled Q with heat, his release fierce enough for Q to feel it through the condom, the only layer that lay between them now--and how thin it was, how finely stretched; so like, Q thought, delirious, the lines of his own stupid heart.

The cynical part of him thought Bond would pull out and give him his marching orders, but the man had done no such thing. Instead, he’d cleaned them up, pushing Q into the sheets with a warm flannel and a gentle flurry of kisses and crawled back in beside him, turned himself again around the curl of Q’s back.

“Thank you,” the lion had whispered, Q remembers, and then there had only been black.

But now, with morning stretching its arms outside, he is still in Bond’s bed and Bond has sucked him straight down, his head bobbing with a speed that would alarm Q if it didn’t feel so bloody good.

Bond’s tugging on his balls, too, tugging and reaching beneath them to press at the place where Q’s still open and wet, and when he presses a fingertip in, Q howls and arches his hips and if Bond chokes at little, it doesn’t deter him, no; instead, it only seems to egg him on.

“Come on,” he slurs around the head of Q’s cock, “god, fuck, come on, sweet. You’re making me crazy.”

Then Bond’s inside him again, two broad fingers, a sharp sudden shock, and the very air around Q seems to shatter.

He’s inside of James’ mouth and James is inside of him, his body not at all sated, still alight and so fucking eager and this has not been his experience in bed, ever; he’s never felt this endless crawl of want, never been so sure he’ll won’t get enough of this man, ever, no matter how many times they do this, how many times James Bond makes him come.

The first spurt makes Bond whine, the second makes him groan, makes him pitch his head down and take Q as deep as he can and the two fingers in Q’s ass scissor, stretching him wider, searching, and somehow, Q’s body has still more to give; he comes so hard, does Q, that it hurts.

“Enough,” he gets out, shoving at Bond’s shoulders. “Ah, fuck, James. Enough.”

Bond lets him go, slides those long fingers free, and slides up to kiss him, to let Q lick his own taste from the hot suck of Bond’s mouth.

“God, you’re delicious,” Bond tells him. “I could do that all day long.”

Q laughs, a winded thing. “No doubt. I don’t think I could.”

Bond ruts against him gently; not a demand or even an ask. Just a simple, pleasant reminder of what it’s done to him, pleasing Q. “I think, Q, that you’d be surprised.”

“You’ve done nothing but surprise me, James.”

A chuckle. “Have I? Well, good for me.”

The sun has come up proper and some part of Q is acutely aware of the time, acutely aware that he’s late, that no matter how much he wants to wile the day away in the soft sink of Bond’s bed, duty--whether he likes it or not--calls.

He strokes Bond’s hair, a gesture that makes the lion sigh. “I have to go.”

“Mmm, do you? Do you really?”

“Some of us do work regular hours, you know.”

“Mmmm.” A twitch of Bond’s hips. “You’re going to leave me like this?”

Q snorts. “I think you can take care of that on your own.”

“True. But it won’t be nearly as much fun as it was to come inside of you.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” A scratch of the lion’s whiskers over his cheek. “I may have thought about it once or twice, you know. What it would be like to take you to bed.”

Q’s face is hot, his gut a tight, squirming knot. “Had you now?”

“I had.”

“And was it what, ah--was it what you thought it would be?”

Bond pushes up, lifts his head and looks Q full in the face. “My imagination,” he says with a sparkle in his bloody blue eyes, a grin that’s terribly, perfectly sincere, “had utterly failed me.”

“Oh,” Q says. “I, um. Oh.”

“But that’s neither here nor there, is it? You have to go. M will be looking for you.”

Somehow, Q’s arms are around Bond’s neck. “Well--”

“Well, what, darling?” Bond makes to get up, tugs Q’s arms into a stretch. “You’re going to be late, aren’t you? You probably are already.”

“James?”

“Hmmm?”

Q grins, leans up to let Bond taste it. “Shut up and fuck me again.”


End file.
